Chapter 40

The tour went on.

I did not.

All I knew was that I was dead.

Killed.

Edward Cullen killed me.

But then again, I knew he would.

Stupid, stupid girl.

I was left with a gaping, memory-filled oozing sore that held the last touch of his traitorous finger against my skin.

His final, slashing words.

The ones he couldn't have possibly meant.

The ones my shattered heart mocked me with, telling me that he'd never lied. He'd never once told me any untruth. He'd even told me that was the case, sang it to me. Told me straight out he was a liar.

So why would he suddenly not be?

Simple. He wouldn't.

The tears flowed fresh as I lay on my stupid bed in my stupid room surrounded by his stupid posters, trying to force myself to come to terms with the fact that Edward had never lied to me.

Which only meant one thing. He was telling me what was truly inside him.

I was nothing.

Replaceable. With a Bridget, or a Roxanne, or a Tiffany or Julie or Rebecca. Big tits. Trashy skin. All bendable over the backs of couches and good on their knees. Bus three.

Where did I rate? I wanted to believe the three days of cloudy and dazed lust had made me rise to the top. Three days of whiskey and tattoos and secrets had made me something other, a three-day girl, not a three-hour slut.

But of course, I didn't know that I was the only one he'd had for days. Maybe there was a seven or twelve-day-girl in the mix somewhere, somewhere in his toxic path he'd woven throughout the world. Maybe there was a basket full of used girls who now had permanent ink under their breasts, still reeling from the tornado that was him.

It didn't matter where I rated, I tried to tell myself between angry sobs and unending hiccups. Didn't matter because I didn't care.

I struggled with that mantra for six long days holed up in the teenage bedroom I'd grown out of in the blink of an eye. I spent hours upon hours telling myself it didn't matter what he thought of me, not anymore.

On day seven, I stared at the floor to ceiling-sized poster of him with his guitar strapped across his bare chest, smoke circling his head as he exhaled and leaned one bare foot against a cinder block wall in some alley years ago.

When I found myself moving my hand along the paper tattoos, my fingertips came to life. I felt every ridge, every goosebump, every hair like he was right in front of me. My fingers tingled as they ghosted across the picture, my palm cupping his face and willing the image to come to life. Yearning for his black and white arms to envelop me and hold me and take me out of my stupid bedroom and back to his world.

Paper Edward was as cold as the flesh and bone version.